“Scripts?”
Another skyline in the distance. The Silver Stingray pulled out of the Wilmington station, back into the snow. A bunch of guys in blue tuxes and Dee Dee Lowenstein stood in the aisle of the last sleeping compartment.
“We better find Tanner,” said Spider. “We’re supposed to go on in a few minutes and we still don’t have our scripts.”
They noticed for the first time that a large group of people had gathered behind them, suspiciously quiet. The performers looked at them. The people stared back and smiled. Some had notebooks and pencils out. One wore a T-shirt: “Mystery lovers do it by the book.”
“This is creepy,” said Preston. “Let’s get out of here.”
They went up to the next sleeping compartment and looked back. The doors opened and the group came in, slightly larger now. The performers headed for the next sleeper car. The group followed, picking up new members along the way. The performers walked faster; the crowd stayed with them. Preston hit a button and the automatic doors opened to the next car.
They were practically running when they reached the dining car. They turned around. The door in the back of the compartment opened, and in they came.
“Who the hell are they?” said Spider.
“What do they want from us?” said Andy.
Another voice: “There you are!”
They turned. It was their agent, Tanner Lebos, sitting at one of the tables with Ralph Krunkleton.
“Get over here!” Tanner bellowed, making an exaggerated waving gesture.
They approached the table. The crowd followed.
“I got your scripts right here…” Tanner’s hand felt around next to the table but only found air. “Hold a sec.”
Tanner stuck his head under the table, then came back up. “The scripts! They’re gone!”
“Maybe you left them back in the sleeping car?” said Ralph.
“No, I’m sure,” said Tanner. “I always know where that thing is — it’s my favorite briefcase.” Then Tanner started talking to himself, reenacting recent events. “Okay, I sat down, turned and put the briefcase right there, opened the newspaper…”
“There’s got to be a simple explanation,” said Ralph.
“No chance,” said Tanner. “Something bizarre has happened. This is a real puzzle.”
“Kind of like a mystery?” said Krunkleton.
Tanner glared. “Not now, Ralph.” He went back to recreating his morning. “Then I reached for the salt…”
An Amtrak porter walked through the sleeping compartment, knocking on doors. “Tickets. Check your tickets…”
He knocked on the number seven berth. “Tickets…”
“It’s unlocked.”
The porter opened the door and saw Serge sitting on the top bunk, legs dangling over the side, a conductor’s hat on his head and an electric control box in his hands. On the floor, a miniature train chugged around a small oval of track.
“I need to check your ticket.”
Serge pointed at the train. “It’s coming around.”
The porter bent over and plucked the ticket sticking out of the logging car as it went past his feet. He looked it over — “Thank you” — and stuck the ticket back in the logging car on its next pass. “Having a nice trip?”
Serge nodded without looking up from his controls. “Me ride big choo-choo.”
“That’s nice,” said the porter, closing Serge’s door. “…Holy Jesus!”
Back in the dining car, tables began filling up. Waiters set ice-water glasses on the linen and flipped open order pads. “Poached salmon or prime rib?”
“What are we going to do without scripts?” asked Frankie. “Look — they’re already arriving.”
“I got it,” said Tanner. “You all have regular acts, right?”
They nodded.
“Do ’em,” he said. “That’ll hold us till tomorrow. We’ll find the scripts and write it all in as back story.”
Plates of fish and beef arrived. People buttered rolls. Preston and the others claimed the big rounded booth at the front of the car. When most of the people were finished eating, Tanner stood and tapped a glass of water with a spoon.
“May I have your attention. I want to thank you all for coming to this special production of The Stingray Shuffle…” Tanner paused until the clapping tapered off. “Since most of you have read the book, there really wouldn’t be a whole lot of suspense. So we’ve played around with the story a little. The killer might not be who you think. And you’ll definitely never guess who ends up with the five million dollars! With us tonight to bring the story to life are some of the finest entertainers in the business. Starting from my left, direct from Reno, Nevada, Frankie Chan and His Amazing Shadow Puppet Revue…”
The women at table number five ordered another round of blue cabooses.
“I’m having so much fun,” said Maria. “This was a great idea.”
“Where’s Serge?” asked Rebecca.
“He’ll show up sooner or later,” said Teresa. “If I know him, there’s no way he’ll miss this.”
“…And finally,” Tanner announced, “the reason all of us are here. The author of classics we’ve come to know and love — let’s give a big hand for the one and only Ralph Krunkleton!…Ralph, stand up!”
Ralph stood self-consciously and waved to the applause. Baltimore went by the windows.
A half hour later, Frankie Chan was wrapping up his big finale, the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in hand shadows. The ovation was deafening. Frankie went back to the booth and bummed a cigarette.
“You hear that applause?” he said. “We should have been doing this from the start!”
“Who’s up?”
“Dee Dee,” said Spider.
Dee Dee Lowenstein took the stage and launched an uncanny rendition of “South American Way.”
Serge walked up the center aisle of the dining car in a burgundy smoking jacket. “It’s murder, I tell you! This man has been poisoned! Nobody leave the room!”
Dee Dee stopped singing and someone turned off her boom box. The audience began taking notes. Some filmed with camcorders. Serge pulled the script from his back pocket. “Wait a minute. There’s no Carmen Miranda in this scene.” He went back to the sleeping car.
Someone turned the music back on, and Dee Dee brought the house down with a medley from Carmen’s Hollywood years.
The applause was off the meter. Dee Dee headed back to the rounded booth. The Washington Monument went by. “What a great room!”
“Preston, you’re up.”
The Great Mez-mo took the stage. “I need some volunteers.”
Nobody responded. “You gals,” said Preston, pointing at table number five. “Come on up here.”
The women declined, but the audience was behind Preston: “Get up there!”
A few minutes later, Paige was scraping invisible poop off her shoe, Teresa said she swam out to naval carrier escorts, Sam quacked, and Rebecca begged Preston for his autograph.
Preston walked up to Maria.
“Are you a lesbian?”
“No,” Maria said, trancelike.
He handed her a blow-up doll. “Then pretend this is one of the Baldwins.”
The crowd roared.
Three hours later, Books, Booze and Broads were still in the dining car. They barely held a quorum.
“Where did the time go?” said Paige.
“Better yet, where did Rebecca and Sam go?” said Maria.
“I can guess where Sam is,” said Teresa. “But Rebecca must have had some kind of luck we don’t know about.”
The Great Mez-mo closed the door behind him in his sleeping compartment. Rebecca looked around in wonderment. “I can’t believe I’m actually in Brad Pitt’s room!”
The next compartment: “Oh yes! Oh no! Oh yes!” Sam grabbed Serge by the back of the head. “Oh God! Oh God! Tell me what you’re thinking about!…”